


i'm on my knees (and your faith in shreds, it seems)

by good_ho_mens



Series: the war is over, and we are beginning [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Family Dynamics, Gen, Making Up, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, Swordfighting, Toby Smith | Tubbo Needs a Hug, Toby Smith | Tubbo and Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, i literally could not get this to where i like it but its fine, title is from thistle and weeds by mumford and sons, uhhhhhhh i dont know how else to tag this oihfwefjkbwevo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 23:22:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29497998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/good_ho_mens/pseuds/good_ho_mens
Summary: Techno crosses his arms, scowling as Tubbo takes another perilous swing at the wood. “I made my motivations clear.”“You condemn power when you hold more of it than any of us,” Tubbo snaps.***Or, Wilbur's back. That doesn't exactly fix everything
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & Technoblade
Series: the war is over, and we are beginning [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2138607
Comments: 31
Kudos: 470
Collections: Completed stories I've read





	i'm on my knees (and your faith in shreds, it seems)

It’s the night after, with socks still wet hanging by the fireplace and the last remaining smells of potato stew filling the air, after they’ve all calmed down from snowball fights and halfhearted shouting, when Techno starts waiting for it to get bad again.

He feels that this is a little bit like the calm before the storm. At some point, they’ll remember they don’t like each other.

Techno tries to tell himself he doesn’t care.

(He’s lying.)

Wilbur is in the kitchen, cleaning up dinner like he had insisted on, all the while shooing Tommy and Tubbo upstairs and telling them to get under the covers before their fingers and toes fell off from the cold. It’s domestic. It’s everything Wilbur wanted before all this.

It won’t last.

Techno knows that Wilbur knows it too. There was a desperation in his eyes when Tommy literally said “fuck it” and hugged him goodnight. Techno pretends to read his book, and Wilbur pretends the pot he’s scrubbing at hasn’t been clean for five minutes, and they wait.

At the very least, Techno is glad there’s someone waiting for the storm with him.

“So, you and Tubbo,” Wilbur asks slowly, still scrubbing away at the pot and doing his very best to seem nonchalant. 

Techno holds back a sigh and flips a page in his book. 

“What about us?”

“You made a good team, earlier.”

“Yup.”

“Even looked like you were getting along.”

“Yup.”

The pot drops into the sink, and Techno does sigh this time, looking up from his book at his brother, a hand braced on the counter and the other on his hip. Wilbur raises an eyebrow, “Did you guys make up or not?”

“If you’re askin’ if we had a sweet little cry session and apologized, then no.”

“Oh.”

Techno sighs again. He hates that tone of voice. Giving in and snapping his book closed, he scoots forward in his chair. “What?”

“I don’t know,” Wilbur says with a shrug. “I suppose I was just hoping you could… apologize to each other, be family again.”

“Wilbur, they trapped him in a box and made me fire a rocket into his chest,” Techno replies, and there’s a sick sense of satisfaction there when Wilbur flinches. “And then he pulled me out of retirement and locked me in a cage like an animal. If I didn’t have a totem—“

“I get it,” Wilbur interrupts. His eyes are closed. “I get it. I know some… some fucked up things happened, but if you and Tommy—“

“Tommy and I are pretendin’ until one of us breaks, Wilbur. You and I are playin’ a waitin’ game, the storm will hit soon.”

“Well maybe if you actually made an  _ effort _ with them, it wouldn’t.”

The anger is quick, like a dry leaf going up with a spark. Techno’s eyebrows lower into a glare, and he thinks that if Wilbur remembers when they were happy, he remembers when they fought, too. Screaming at each other like hate was the only emotion there was.

“Why, so they can turn around and betray me again?” he asks, “Call me a weapon and spit in my face?”

“You destroyed their home!”

“You did that to all of us when you died!”

The room falls silent, Wilbur standing in the kitchen doorway with his hands at his sides, Techno sitting with his posture stiff. 

The fights never lasted long, back then.

Wilbur moves to sit down on the armchair opposite him, tapping his knees nervously. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“I know you are,” Techno replies, his shoulders hunching. 

“But I’m  _ trying  _ to fix it, Tech. I swear I am.” Wilbur licks his lips, and then he’s looking back out the window at the falling snow. “I can’t fix that, though. You and Tubbo, or you and Tommy. I just— I know it’s naive, but I was hoping we could be a family again.”

“You’re right,” Techno says, softer than he means to, “it is naive.”

“After all this awful shit, the death and blood and tears… don’t you think we deserve a little naivety?”

Techno picks up his book again. As Wilbur stands, making his way back to the kitchen, Techno clears his throat. 

“I’ll give it a shot, if you’re really set on it.”

“Thank you, Techno.” Wilbur smiles at him sadly, “And I know what you’re thinking. Hey, if it comes to it, we’ll wait out the storm together, too.”

Wilbur thinks the snow is beautiful, that it means something alive and unique. 

Technoblade just thinks it’s cold. 

***

One would think that after getting his sort of almost brother back from the dead, he’d be able to sleep soundly. 

One would think. 

_ “I’m sorry Tubbo,”  _ Technoblade says. Tubbo eyes snap open before he sees the color. 

He sits up and throws the blankets off his legs, stumbling onto the ground. He drops onto his hands and knees a second later, taking in a harsh breath. 

He’s alive. He’s fine. His scars burn. 

“Not in a box,” he whispers to himself, pressing a hand against his chest, the fabric of his shirt rubs uncomfortably against the scar tissue there. He’s sweating, but he’s way too cold to take it off. 

“Not in a box,” he repeats. 

“Tubbo?”

Shit. 

Tubbo forgot Tommy was with him, sharing the same bed because Techno only had two spares, and Wilbur called the other one ages ago. 

Techno’s house. Four walls. A roof. A box. Technoblade. 

“Tubbo,” Tommy says again, but it’s not a question this time. Feet hit the ground behind him, and then the thunk of knees, and Tommy is in front of him, leaning down to catch his eye. “Hey, big man. You have to breathe, alright?”

Tubbo laughs, voice infused with panic. Easier said than done. 

“Had a— a nightmare— Technoblade and— and—“

“I know. Just breathe, right now. Jesus, you’re shaking.”

Tommy shifts so he’s sitting, wrapping his arms around his knees and pressing his shoulder against Tubbo’s side. 

Tubbo let’s the pressure ground him, managing a deep breath, and then another. He messes up a few times, cut short by a gasp or the start of a sob that he won’t let escape. 

He won’t cry. 

“Try again,” Tommy says, so Tubbo does. 

Eventually, he remembers how to breathe well enough to get off his hands, falling back to sit against the bed next to Tommy. He drops his head on his shoulder and closes his eyes. “Sorry.”

“What for? Nightmares fucking suck. I get it.”

“Yeah.”

Tommy slowly drops his hand onto the ground between them, palm up. He’s looking resolutely at the wall with a scowl. Tubbo grabs his hand without hesitation. 

He thinks Tommy lets out a sigh of relief at that, but his heart is still beating too loudly in his ears to really tell. 

“Coming from me this is gonna sound like bullshit, but you should probably talk about it, man.”

“You’re right, that does sound like bullshit.”

Tommy shoves him as best he can in their position, laughing shortly, “No, no, I’m serious. Even I— I talked about it. Exile.”

“With who?”

“Techno.”

“Oh.” Tubbo can’t close his eyes without seeing the rocket in Techno’s hand. He supposes Tommy sees something different. “I don’t think Techno wants to talk to me.”

“Tell Wilbur then! Or— or me,  _ I’ll  _ listen, Tubbo, alright?” Tommy’s grip on his hand tightens. “You won’t tell anyone what happened or what you were thinking about—“

“I was thinking about how I was going to  _ die,  _ Tommy.”

The two of them go quiet, and then Tubbo sighs, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“It’s alright.”

“I just— Pogtopia sucked. For all of us. Who am I to start talking about— about Schlatt and being a spy when you all went through much worse?”

“There’s no measuring cup for bad shit, Tubbo. It’s all just bad.”

“Who told you that?”

“What? I can’t be fucking wise all on my own?”

“Tommy Innit, wise? What portal to another dimension have I fallen through?”

Tommy laughs, shoving him again. This time, Tubbo shoves him back. “Yeah, yeah. You’re a real bitch in the mornings, you know that?”

“Tommy, it’s like two am.”

“Eh, good enough.”

Tubbo smiles, scooting down so his head is propped more comfortably on Tommy’s shoulder. “Thank you, for helping.”

“I’ll always— from now on, alright, I’ll always be here.” Tommy leans back against the bed, “Wilbur’s back. That’s like… the last puzzle piece, you know? We’ve got ‘em all, now we just have to fucking… put the puzzle together.”

“Who knew you got philosophical in the middle of the night.”

The silence is comfortable for a while, but Tubbo can tell by the way Tommy keeps glancing at him that this isn’t over. 

“You’re angry, aren’t you, Tubbo?”

Tubbo stares at the wall across from them, Tommy’s hand loose in his grip. 

“I’ve always been angry. There’s just never been any time for it.”

“Wilbur’s back,” Tommy repeats. “There’s time now.”

“Okay,” Tubbo says placatingly. 

Tommy looks down at him, and after a few seconds, he reaches under his shirt and pulls a leather tie over his head. 

A compass drops into Tubbo’s lap a second later. 

_ Your Tubbo.  _

“Where does it point now that L’Manburg is gone?”

Tommy taps the inscription, and then lifts the compass. The little needle points at Tubbo like an accusing finger. 

This is your friend, it tells him. This is everything. 

“Oh,” Tubbo whispers. 

Tommy picks up the compass again. “I want it to— I don’t want it to stop pointing. So just… just swear to me you won’t fucking— that you won’t just—“

“Okay,” Tubbo interrupts, because he can’t stand the way Tommy stutters over words like he’s about to cry. “Okay, Tommy. I’ll try, for you.”

“Thank you.”

Tubbo stares at the wall long after Tommy’s fallen asleep against him, and he tries to remember what it was like when he wasn’t angry all the time.

***

Despite saying he would try, Techno hasn’t actually… done that.

It’s been four days, dancing around each other and staying away from insults that hit too close, keeping their swords sheathed but always with them.

Techno doesn’t want to admit it, but it’s been nice. There’s a tension in the air, but there’s something else, something like light.

Wilbur and Tommy are talking like they always used to, shouting at each other one second and then laughing the next. They might be the only ones who’ve settled into the old routine.

At least Tommy doesn’t look as tired.

They’re supposed to be eating lunch, meeting at some picnic spot by Tommy’s house. The two of them had left early, basically shoving Tubbo duty on Techno. He saw the encouragement in Wilbur’s eyes, the wariness in Tommy’s.

Things were easier when they just hated each other.

He finds Tubbo chopping wood outside, his heavy coat thrown haphazardly on top of the snow, his breath white and visible in the frigid air. He’s swinging the axe like it’s all he can do to keep hold of it, his shoulders jerking. His knees knock against the stump every time he swings forward, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“You alright?” Techno asks slowly, coming to a stop a few feet away.

If Tubbo was startled by him, he doesn’t show it. Just keeps chopping away. “Fine. Fire needed more wood.”

“There’s plenty of coal—”

“Do you need something?”

Techno doesn’t remember this Tubbo, the one with anger in his voice and stance. He wonders how much he contributed to that. “Tommy and Wilbur are watin’ for us.”

“I’m not going,” Tubbo says, “I don’t feel well.”

“This doesn’t seem like the best activity if you’re sick.”

“I didn’t say I’m sick, I said I’m not feeling well.”

Techno sighs, and gives in to the little voice in his head that sounds a lot like Wilbur. He sits down on the stump next to Tubbo’s, “Feel like talking about it?”

Tubbo’s axe lowers slightly, and he swipes his forearm across his red nose. “Do you ever get nightmares?”

“No,” Techno replies, and when Tubbo nods in resignation, he winces, “Yes. I do.”

“What about?”

“Lots of things. Wilbur dying. What Dream did to Tommy.”

The festival and the weight of a crossbow in his hands.

Tubbo flinches, dropping the axe. “I still don’t… have all of that information. I think Tommy doesn’t want to make me feel more guilty.”

Techno can’t help it, he snorts. Tubbo’s eyebrows lower into a glare and he shrugs, “What do you want me to say, Tubbo? That you don’t deserve part of the blame?”

“You have no idea— being president after Schlatt, the pressure Dream put on me—”

“Was enough to betray someone you cared about.”

“At the very least, I’d hope you’d understand that,” Tubbo growls. He picks up the axe again. “Hypocrite. Always have been.”

Techno crosses his arms, scowling as Tubbo takes another perilous swing at the wood. “I made my motivations clear.”

“You condemn power when you hold more of it than any of us,” Tubbo snaps.

The two of them fall silent. After a few minutes, Techno stands and turns to walk away.

He’s not sure he can count that as trying. He tells Wilbur he did anyway.

***

Tubbo is close to his limit. He’s been at Technoblade’s stupid house for a week and a half now, because Wilbur insists on staying, and Tommy insists on staying with Wilbur, and Tubbo still isn’t over the immediate fear and anxiety he feels in his gut whenever Tommy isn’t with him.

So he’s stayed, too. 

It sucks.

The only times he’s been here is when he came with the Butcher Army, and the other was when he got up the courage to finally confront Techno, and then lost every ounce of it the second he saw him.

He made up a stupid excuse about bees. Pathetic.

Every morning Tommy wakes up next to him, and sees the dark circles under his eyes, and asks how long he slept, and every morning, Tubbo lies and says all night.

“Wilbur said he’d listen,” Tommy says, and Tubbo shrugs.

Wilbur has enough on his plate.

“Hey, mate,” Wilbur says with a smile when Tubbo walks into the kitchen. His eyes are still a grayish color, and his skin is still pale. Like he hasn’t quite come alive all the way yet.

Tubbo waves and takes the toast Wilbur gives him, and he goes outside.

That’s how he spends his days, one after the other, stuck in this prison of pretending to be a happy family when he’s not actually happy, and he was never really family.

There aren’t bees at Technoblade’s house. The cold climate doesn’t allow it. 

Tubbo would give anything to hear the buzz of a bee.

“Don’t you get cold?” a voice asks behind him.

Holding back a sigh, Tubbo shakes his head. Techno’s been doing this lately, trying to strike up conversation. Tubbo doesn’t know why, they weren’t all that close before everything went to shit.

He has a few memories, foggy and hidden in the back of his mind, of learning how to play chess by a fireplace. Techno’s monotone voice was comforting, back then. Encouraging and light. 

Sometimes Tubbo wonders if those memories are really just his imagination trying to find something good in all of this.

“Did you teach me how to play chess?” Tubbo asks on impulse. The wood porch creaks behind him as Techno’s feet shift.

“Yes. When you were little. Picked up on it quick, too.”

“That’s not very fair, is it?” Tubbo says quietly, “That some of my best memories were just foreshadowing horrible things to come.”

Techno grunts, he sounds uncomfortable. “No. Not very fair.”

Tubbo sits outside until Tommy finds him, dragging him inside to play some sort of card game with Wilbur. He doesn’t see Techno for the rest of the night.

The next morning, his eye bags are darker, and the cycle repeats.

Tubbo is close to his limit.

***

Like Techno knew it would, the storm hits two weeks after Wilbur came back. 

“You’ve been kicked out too, huh?” he asks, stopping on the porch’s bottom stair, his breath visible in the night air.

Tubbo snorts, “Tommy thinks I’m avoiding things.”

“Wilbur thinks he can kick me out of my own house.”

“Well,” Tubbo says with a short laugh, glancing back at the lit windows, “he’s right, apparently.”

Techno grunts.

“You’re never going to actually sit and figure it out, are you?” Tubbo asks. “You don’t know how to just… work it out like friends.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Tubbo says. He shrugs, and Techno thinks he’s going to leave, but then the sound of a sword grating against its sheath fills the air and Tubbo is turning, a diamond sword in his hand and a far too kind expression on his face.

“What are you doing?”

“You said once that the universal language is violence,” Tubbo says. He lifts his sword, lowers his stance, “So let’s talk.”

Techno’s sword swings up to meet Tubbo’s on instinct as it comes flying towards his face, and his foot slips, just a centimeter. 

This is not what he was expecting. 

“Talk about what?” he growls, shoving back and sending Tubbo stumbling. He can barely lift the sword's weight, his shoulders hunched and his posture far too low to the ground. 

He looks like a child. 

Techno shakes the thought away and lunges. 

Tubbo meets the blow, raising an eyebrow. “Wilbur’s back. He and Tommy seem to think that fixes it all.”

“You don’t?”

“Do you?”

Chuckling, Techno ducks under Tubbo’s swing, swiping his foot out and rolling back onto his feet when Tubbo jumps over it. “No, I don’t.”

“It’s like they think just being alive fixes it,” Tubbo says, slipping in the snow and getting his footing back slow enough that Techno had time to run him through. He spins his sword in his hand and holds back.

“Maybe they’ve just got different views on death.”

“Makes sense, Wilbur dying, Tommy in exile.”

Techno vaults over the railing of the porch, and Tubbo’s sword hits the wood instead. He sighs as he braces his foot and tugs at it. Techno pretends to fix his stance and nods, “Yeah, guess I can’t appreciate life so much if I know I’ll never die.”

“Liar,” Tubbo says, but doesn’t expand on it. “I think I’m just tired. All the presidents before me have died, I expected to as well.”

“Hm. That’s healthy.”

“Yeah, how’s your isolation arc going by the way?”

“Fine,” Techno defends.

On his next swing, Tubbo doesn’t dodge quite soon enough, and the tip of Techno’s sword nicks his cheek.

Techno sees red. Tubbo doesn’t seem bothered.

“Feeling it, then?” he asks, holding up his sword to block.

“Stupid move,” Techno replies.

Tubbo rolls under Techno’s legs, kicking the back of his leg when he stands up behind him. One of Techno’s knees hits the ground and he growls, low and guttural.

Tubbo is panting, shifting his grip on his sword. “I didn’t mean to— to make you angry. But I need you to actually  _ hear _ me.”

“Feel more like killin’ you at the moment,” Techno snaps. Their swords clash.

“You know what I think?” Tubbo asks, shoving his sword foreword with all his weight. “I think you don’t have any drive, or morals. I think you’re always stuck between fighting the voices, and giving in.”

Techno growls, and Tubbo’s sword hits the ground three feet away. “That so?”

“Are you scared of them, Technoblade? Are you scared they’ll kill you one day, or are you scared they’ll never let you die?”

Red floods his vision and Tubbo is on the ground. Tubbo is laying in the grass with a sword at his throat and all Techno has to do is press it down a few inches. It wouldn’t take any effort. The voices tell him to do it. Tubbo is on the ground and the voices tell him it would be easy. 

“I’m not scared of anything.”

It’s a lie. Techno is starting to realize that Tubbo sees far too much to believe it.

“Then kill me,” he says. “Like you did at the festival.”

Techno always knew that forgiveness was circumstantial. He steps back, and Tubbo scrambles to his feet. There’s fear in his eyes, but there’s also something cunning and analytic. 

“Are you going to listen?” Tubbo asks.

The voices are loud, but they echo Tubbo’s words. Techno watches the blood drip down his cheek and some of the voices say  _ defenseless child, _ but some of them say  _ listen, _ so Techno does. 

He also tries to take Tubbo’s head off, but hey, who said he can’t do both.

“I’m angry at you, Technoblade,” Tubbo says, sliding to a crouch under the weight of Techno’s swing. “And I’m— I’m grateful for what you did for Tommy and livid about L’Manburg but that’s— maybe it  _ was _ never meant to last. Maybe we  _ are _ better off without it.”

“Then why?” Techno grunts.

“The festival.”

Colors and fireworks. The voices didn’t want Tubbo’s blood, but they demanded everyone else's when it was spilled.

“What about it?” he asks, like he doesn’t know.

“I know we were never—  _ I  _ was never really family—“ Tubbo says, grunting when Techno’s free hand hits his wrist, almost making him drop his sword, “but I still trusted you.”

Techno almost freezes long enough for Tubbo to hit him, only shuffling back at the last second. 

He wants to say trust is subjective to the situation, that complete trust is foolish and naive. He wonders how often Tubbo’s been called both those things. 

He wants to say Tubbo was as much a part of their weird mismatched family as he was. 

“You were dead the moment they trapped you in that box,” he says instead, tone calm. “If it wasn’t me, it would’ve been Schlatt—“

With strength Techno wasn’t aware Tubbo had, Techno is shoved backwards, their swords squeaking like nails on a chalkboard as they push against each other. 

“I would rather Schlatt have killed me!”

“It would have been slow, and painful—“

“Are you sure? Because I don’t think anything kills you slower than losing trust in someone you care about!”

Techno steps back, his sword lowering slightly. Tubbo’s chest is heaving, whereas Techno has barely broken a sweat. The snow under them is trampled into a tightly packed circle, and the world seems deadly quiet. 

There are not many things that will make Techno lower his sword, figuratively or literally, there are not many things that make him ignore the voices screaming for blood. 

It would be easy to kill Tubbo. To wound him enough to end this conversation. Send him running, make him never look back. 

Techno’s sword hits the snow with an anticlimactic thunk. The voices screech. He ignores them all.

“Kill me, then,” he tells Tubbo, holding his arms out at his sides. “You get a free pass.”

Tubbo stares at him, eyes flicking around the plains like he’s looking for the trap. 

There’s a yellow box around them all now, reaching up so far in the sky not even Phil can fly over it. 

“But Technoblade never dies,” Tubbo says slowly. 

Techno snorts, a smile tugging at his lips. “No, he doesn’t.”

Tubbo is studying him now, and Techno recalls the time Tommy sat and gushed about his friend, said that sometimes he looked at you like he could see everything. 

Technoblade never dies. His sword lies discarded on the ground. Techno gets on his knees. 

“Do it, we’ll be even.”

Techno imagines there’s a rocket launcher in Tubbo’s hands instead of a sword.

“Technoblade—”

“Take out your anger for once,” Techno interrupts, still calm, even while his heart is beating fast, reminding him painfully that he is alive, that he can bleed. “I killed you! I set withers on your country, twice! I started wars and killed and destroyed everythin’ you loved, Tubbo.” Techno sneers, and the voices scream. “So do what we’ve all been taught to do. Get back at me. Kill me.”

“This isn’t— I never wanted this.” Tubbo looks down at the sword in his hands, looks back at Techno. “I never wanted to fight. Not ever.”

A second sword hits the ground. Techno’s knees are wet with melting snow. 

It’s naive, to think you can have a country without conflict. It’s foolish to lower your weapon in the presence of someone with enough blood on their hands to fill a river. 

“I always thought you were a better person than the rest of us,” Techno says. 

Tubbo laughs, shaking his head. “No. Just too much of a coward to fight.”

“The line between cowardice and bravery is a little blurred on that front.”

“Can you get off your knees now?” Tubbo asks, smiling meekly. “The fact that your eye level with me is both very uncomfortable and very demeaning of my height.”

“Fair enough,” Techno says, and climbs to his feet. After a moment of hesitation, he sets a hand on Tubbo’s shoulder, and when Tubbo doesn’t flinch, the voices still, for just a moment. “I’m sorry.”

Tubbo hums. “I think I forgive you, Technoblade.”

“For all of it?”

“Oh, no. I am still extremely upset about that time you stole stuff from my jungle base.”

Techno laughs before he can stop himself, nodding. “Alright, I can respect that.”

He kicks his leg out a second later, knocking Tubbo off his feet and into the snow.

“Oi!”

“Eh, had to get even.”

Tubbo glares up at him, but there’s a smile on his face. “Prick.”

“Idiot,” Techno shoots back, “I didn’t think the kid who cried at rocket point had it in him.”

“A lot has changed since then.”

“Yeah. I suppose it has.” Techno holds out a hand, and Tubbo takes it without hesitation. Blind trust for the person who could kill him in a second. 

So, not that much has changed. 

Tubbo let’s Techno pull him to his feet, brushing off his pants. When he looks up, he’s grinning. “I suppose we can tell them we’ve hashed it out then!”

He picks up both swords, muttering something about polishing them, and walks off. 

Techno watches him go, trying to run through what just happened.

“Okay then,” he says finally, and follows. 

The voices have been shocked into silence, for once.


End file.
